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Thad Carson
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I went to NAHBS and all I got was a mouthful of Pubes.
             In the end there was light, a dark at the end of the tunnel, a spark that lit a pile of Blackcats that eventually made me lose my eyebrows. Or maybe it was a simpler, more inane message from Gawd, one in which it became my prerogative to interp...

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A Tyrannosaurus for your Thesaurus.
                                                               Kill Creek, day 2...      I find it quite improbable that, after 4 months of silence in the blogosphere, this fucking trashy-ass, dipshit, trailer-park of the mind was still viewed over 500 time...

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The $27,000 Fistfuck.
Blood is a Lubricant: It has been a fortnight plus a fright night plus a depressive, alcohol-fueled two months or so since we last spoke; wherein we visited the Baby Bird wine incident   among other vainglorious saturnalia, amidst a shitstorm of pain and re...

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The Art of Alcohol Poisoning: Pub 'n Pedal 10
       Give me a reputation for being a dastardly drunk and I'll raise you a liver that is so acclimated to partying that it might just take it upon itself to create a new Olympic sport called the 100 meter pickled breast stroker...or possibly the baby-bird...

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Lobotomy don't bodda me.
In the rare event that Satan in Satin appears before my very eyes and rubs one out in my belly button, let it be known, let it ring from on high, that if somehow my ability to be 110% irreverent  in the face of impotent, vacuous fatuousness, please insert a...

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A Pog Blost: The Hot Cock Diet
Fail better,  fail faster: a visual history of the last 4-ish months, give or take a year.  In the dastardly case that the meaning of life is simply an addiction to breathing, as well as the proof that everything even half-way original has been repeated ad ...

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Inebriated Velocipedes, NAHBS 2016.
 ...Broken down and busted in the head; 2 weeks of Influenza type A - the really, Devilish nasty shit: this is how my NAHBS 2016 trip started, and continued through a maze of drunken stupors and high-altitude descents, a spiral of pollution-filled Toyota 4-...

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Happy spew year.
         Time is like a box of chocolates, it lapses into drunken stupors, swallows cheap vodka and is unforgiving when you just want a caramel and not a nut cluster. Other than that erudite analogy, the Boner Ghost has had some super-fun sexytimes that sho...

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Bang the Shitty.
       I can taste failure, and its bittersweet aroma fills the air with a stench akin to roses strewn amongst a million decaying skunks: success is only properly measured by the poverty of attempt; pleasurable recreation achieved only through a suspension ...
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